


Simple and Clean, Impossible and Improbable

by RogueFanKC



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Kingdom Hearts, Sherlock (TV), The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Crossover, Keyblade Wielders - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueFanKC/pseuds/RogueFanKC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Keyblade War is approaching, and new wielders are being Chosen through infinite universes to be summoned to the penultimate battle.</p>
<p>Two of these wielders are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson of Earth-221.</p>
<p>They make a few friends along the way...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> While I'm still trying to write _"Draw Me Like A Dwarrowdam, Ori"_ , I had a brainstorm that would not let me go and this is the result.
> 
> Dedicated and special thanks to [Kelley](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) / [Penumbra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra) for the fabulous art!
> 
> Enjoy the crossover!

  
Art by [Kelley](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) / [Penumbra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra)


	2. How Sherlock and John Watson Got their Keyblades

                “ ** _What are these things?!_** ” yelled DI Dimmock as he and the other Yard officers fired upon the mass throng of shadowy creatures, their yellow eyes as lifeless and glazed as a wooden puppet’s.  The officer wasn’t sure what was more disturbing: the wooden expressions on the beasts’ faces or that fact that each and every one of them were wearing bearskins and red Grenadier uniforms, complete with the royal chipper shoulder pads, buttons, and bayonets.

                The only difference in the demons’ attire from being a complete facsimile of the Buckingham Guards’ uniforms was the strange symbol of the back heart crossed out with a thorny “X”.

                An insult to the Queen and country, if there ever was one.

                “Bloody hell, I don’t know!  Just keep firing!” yelled Lestrade as he reloaded his pistol, taking cover behind his BMW along with Sherlock.

                Infuriatingly, Sherlock was not even taking precautionary cover behind the auto as he stood and stared, trying to deduce the strange anomalies assaulting England.

                The Heartless literally defied every law of biology and physics Sherlock knew.

                “Intriguing…” Sherlock couldn’t help but whisper with troubled eyes, only to be furiously dragged down to the pavement by Lestrade as he tugged hard on Sherlock’s Belstaff.

                “ ** _Get down, you idiot!_** ” growled Lestrade, fighting the urge to throttle Sherlock, “Where’s John?!  I can’t see him!”

                _That_ got the consulting detective’s attention as he realized he lost his partner…

                “Bullets have no effect, sir!” Donovan reported on her police radio, her face grim though determined as she shot one Heartless directly into the forehead, only for it to stop and falter before dancing onwards madly with its weapon as if nothing has occurred.

                “Try the heavy artillery!  Use the tasers, the pepper spray, hell, use tear gas!  **_Try everything!_** ” Lestrade ordered.

                It was starting to become grim.

                Already, the entirety of Trafalgar Square was inundated with the alien invasion.  It was as they were a swarm of ants, a tidal wave of black invaders, flocking over a sugar cube, swelling upon each other and multiplying by the minute.  No matter how hard Londoners tried to fight back or flee, the Heartless stabbed, shot, and dogpiled any helpless victim they could reach, invading the South Africa House, Whitehall, and even defying gravity by running up the walls and scaffolds of Saint Martin-in-the-Fields.

                The Heartless did not speak, did not falter, and yet they were completely effective in their murderous methods.

                The air was filled with the screams and ringing of gunshots and laments of terror and death.

                Yet, no blood spilled, no gruesome rending of flesh and bone, no corpses or physical evidence of the massacre as the stonework and Mall was laid bare.

                Instead, numerous shining hearts from the victims peppered the sky above, like a Christmas tree strung with rosy lights, levitating higher once the Heartless ripped their quarries’ life-forces before vanishing into oblivion.   If Anthea had to guess, the number of casualties had to be in the hundreds already.

                Lestrade would have broken down and cried for every tourist, Londoner, and officer he lost from this sudden attack if it could have helped.

                **_KABOOM!_**

                “What the hell?!” cried out an unnamed Detective Sergeant as the explosion rocked the National Gallery, actually causing bits of marble and stone to go flying out.  Sherlock spotted the fleeting image of one of the Heartless combusting in a terrific detonation of flame, causing one of the pillars of the museum to crumble deafeningly.  Sherlock’s eyes widened as he narrowed down the possibilities of the exact type of explosive being used from the estimation of the decibel level of the ringing blast wave, the damage radius of the scorch marks and the resultant gap amid the museum’s wall, and extensive damage that could crack pietra serena stonework in such a manner…

                Sherlock’s felt the blood chill in his veins as the realization hit him.

                “Semtex…” Sherlock reported on Lestrade’s walkie-talkie as a warning to the Met (and his brother), “ ** _Some of those things are wearing vests of Semtex!_** ”

                Indeed, more and more Heartless materialized within portals of shadows, completely appearing out of thin air, before jogging alongside the Buckingham Guard monstrosities.  These new horrors were quicker, faster, sprinting towards various monuments and crowds of people before killing themselves as effective suicide bombers.  They were more wraithlike, pointed ears and with gangly arms and legs like frog-like gremlins, wearing beige vests strapped across their torso’s with blinking lights and duct-taped bricks of explosive across the fabric.

                To say things got worse would have been a gross understatement.

                “ **Wait!**   Vests of **_semtex?!_** ” gasped Donovan, her eyes wide as she and every officer made the familiar connection.

                “You don’t think…” another constable asked, but so shocked, she was unable to continue the sentence.  Sherlock’s breathing was labored, his mind whirring so fast, he could barely see straight, pale-faced as he tried to assure himself that Moriarty was dead.  Lestrade gave Sherlock a concerned look.  Anderson turned to Anthea (who was beside him against the cover of Havelock’s statue) in puzzlement.

                “Can Mycroft confirm this?” Anderson asked as Anthea moved down five foot soldiers with her M4 submachine-gun, causing two to explode safely in the distance, far from any bystander.  The look of self-doubting insecurity on the PA’s face was **not** reassuring.

                “We don’t know,” she decided to say at last.  Anderson was quite sure he would have preferred it if she lied to him…

                More and more explosions began to ring throughout the city of Westminster, invoking screams and cries of the civilians as the Yard did their best to stop the destruction from becoming graver.

                “Oh God!” gasped Lestrade as he spotted one lone figure, on his hands and knees in the middle of the diminishing city square, transfixed and frozen.

                “Doctor Watson is out there!” yelled out another Detective Sergeant as he finally used his billy club to forcefully bash a Buckingham demon in the head and shove him off his body before it could stab him.

                Sherlock frantically scanned John’s labored breathing in shuddering gasps, unwilling to crawl despite no apparent blood or injuries on his body, his forehead starting to bead with sweat, and the fact that John’s left hand was tremoring madly, fingers unconsciously twitching against the concrete as he hacked with gritted teeth…

                John couldn’t help it.  The flashbacks were too vivid, too powerful.  The explosions reminded him of the searing heat from the roadside bombs that temporarily deafened the hearing in his right ear, the windy sands making the air dusty and difficult to breathe as he crawled amid wreckage and ducked gunfire to tend to his fallen comrades, the bullet ripping through the flesh and bone of his shoulder like wet paper, fracturing his soul and mind and sending bouts of crippling pain throughout his body.

                The doctor was so disoriented in his PTSD that he didn’t notice the one Heartless running directly at him, ready to detonate its payload.

                “ _Shit!_ ” Lestrade cursed before he realized too late what was going to happen as Sherlock dashed forward in the line of fire out in the open, too late for Lestrade to try and tackle him.

                “ ** _Freak, what are you doing?!_** ” screeched an outraged Sally, though one could not tell if she were angry and fearful as Anderson, Anthea, and a few Yard officers tried to shoot the Heartless before it could hit John.  Unfortunately, the demon was too swift and evasive, effortlessly skirting past the bullets with ease before heading directly towards John Watson.

                John didn’t have any time to protest as he felt Sherlock tackle him towards the ground and shielded John with his own body, hugging him close.

                “ ** _SHERLOCK!_** ” cried out Lestrade, helpless to do anything but watch.

                And all over the world, on various television networks as they showed the coverage of the massacre on every news broadcast from BBC to CNN to ANN7 to NHK World…

                Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth with both of her hands with a sob.

                Molly Hooper held her elbows so tightly, her fingernails dug into her skin.

                Mike Stamford prayed, coffee mug overturned and forgotten as it dripped into his students’ test papers.

                Mycroft Holmes forced himself to watch on through the CCTV from his office.

                “John…” whispered Sherlock in his blogger’s ear as he instinctively hugged John close. As the Heartless was now less than a foot away…

                “Sherlock?” John murmured out of his fugue state, dazed.

                In that split second, John could only think how it wasn’t so bad, dying this way.  At least Sherlock wasn’t going to leave him behind a second time, wasn’t going to abandon him like Mary…

                Just as the Heartless was about to explode...

                Two nascent stars of light, one mysterious and dark, one pure and white, flickered between the two men before illuminating all of Trafalgar Square in a brilliant and dazzlingly surge of brightness.

                **_Shhhhooooooooooommm!_**

                “Augh!  What is happening?!  _I can’t see!_ **Bloody hell!**   What’s going on?!  **_Sherlock!  Doctor Watson!_** ”

                All whom were watching on their televisions, phones (and in Mycroft’s case, the CCTV) were taken by complete surprise at the unexpected luminosity.

                After several seconds of pulsating shadow and sun, the radiance finally subsided, allowing all of the people in the warzone and around the world to finally witness what had happened as Sherlock and John opened their eyes.

                The Heartless had all vanished, fading and completely obliterated from the sudden glow that engulfed all of London temporarily.  Except for the devastated monuments and piled cars, the smoking fires, and the various injured English citizens, officers, and paramedics mingling about, there were no traces of the deadly shadowy creatures.

                “Wh-…where did that light come from?” Sally Donovan asked, rubbing her eyes and blinking to ensure she did become temporarily blind from the brightness.  Anderson then gasped as he pointed with his hand at Sherlock and John Watson.

                “ ** _LOOK!_** ” Anderson cried as everyone in the square then honed on the two shining sources of illumination…

                Meanwhile, John and Sherlock were sluggishly coming out of their stupor, blinking, only to realize that they weren’t dead.  Sherlock, in full protective mode, was lying atop of John, though thankfully, it wasn’t crushingly unbearable with Sherlock’s full weight on top of John’s upper body.  Despite the situation, both could rather admit that they were suddenly concentrating on the soothing warmth in their chests, feeling each other’s rapid heartbeats against their ribcages like a baby bird’s, with Sherlock reflexively embracing John’s torso and tightly pressing it close against his.  With flushed cheeks and shaky breaths, both opened their eyes only to look into each other’s concerned faces, only inches apart.

                John could have honestly wondered if he was in the afterlife…

                Amazingly, Sherlock felt a bit of heat underneath his collar as he whispered softly, “Er, John?  Are you…a bit…not good?”

                John couldn’t help but smile and giggle at the uncharacteristic awkwardness and clumsy inelegance as he pushed himself off the ground with Sherlock’s help, trusting hands joined.  Like a contagion, Sherlock couldn’t help but crack a smile in return at the sound of John’s inappropriate mirth, laugh lines marring his face but making it so humanly welcoming and vulnerable.

                John then blinked at the weapon in Sherlock’s hands, still outlined in halos of black colored light.

                “Er…Sherlock?” John asked, “Did you grab that from our flat?”

                “Actually, I was about to ask how long had you carried a sword?” Sherlock asked, truly taken aback as he gawped at the object in John’s hand.

                It was then that both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes realized that they were both equally in possession of the strangest and most beguiling weapons ever witnessed in Earth’s history.

  
Art by [Kelley](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) / [Penumbra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra)

                Sherlock was holding a beautiful black Keyblade, composed of an extraordinary metal, unlike any other the detective had ever studied from past experiments or science texts.  Darker than obsidian yet pristine and flawless.  Under the sun, Sherlock’s Keyblade gleamed with a fine polish.  The blade was tall, thin and elegant with Victorian swirls and tendrils dancing along the lower edges.  And at the mouth of the Keyblade was a carved and flattened impression in the shape of a black honeybee, with wings and legs stretched out and complete with a large stinger and antenna.  The detail of the hairy legs, antennae, and the veins in the bee’s wings were breathtakingly exquisite.  The cross-guard of the weapon was a perfect outline of a hexagon, like a honeycomb, with the grip of the weapon wrapped in soft, dark velvet that gave a luxurious feeling against Sherlock’s callused palm.  And the rainguard of the Keyblade was a dark, polished disc of marble stamped with the image of a magnifying glass.  Hanging from the end of the Keyblade, attached to the black onyx pommel-stone, was a thin keychain.  At the end of the fine chain was a metal mold in the shape of a deerstalker hat against the outline of a metal heart.  Except oddly enough, the left side of the heart was filled with white.

                John’s Keyblade was a stark contrast.  It was pale as the freshest snow, as beautiful as unadulterated marble and purer than the cleanest silver, without a scuff mark or a speck of dirt throughout the armament.  The blade was actually in the form of a broadsword, complete with an impressive blade, fuller portions and a central ridge and point at the top.  Yet at the mouth of the sword was a carved figure of a hedgehog, complete with the spiky hide, pointed nose, and beady eyes, proudly displaying on one side of the sword blade.  The impression of the hedgehog had sparkling eyes that shone like diamonds, so lifelike and bright.  Ironically, the weapon had a real cross-guard like any sword, except that it was composed of white metal precast and shaped as two Sig Sauer pistols, with the handles joined at rain-guard (stamped with a marble disc with the image of another roaring lion’s head) and the mouths of the pistols pointing outwards.  The grip of the Keyblade was well-worn leather, brown, tanned, but it felt so good in John’s palm, as if it were made especially for him.  And hanging from the end of the Keyblade, miraculously, were John’s army dogs tags.  But also with the tags and the fine chain of white was a white metal heart, the same exact design as the one on Sherlock’s.  Except that the right side of the heart was filled with black crystal.

                Both John and Sherlock were at a complete loss of words as they ogled dumbly at these strange irregularities.

                “Sherlock, when did you and John have…those things?” Lestrade asked as he broke the silence, staring bugged-eyed at the two weapons.  Sherlock did not answer, frowning, as he rudely ignored the Detective Inspector while analyzing the strange apparatus and silently going over the possibilities of the significance of these peculiar weapons emerging immediately after the strange foray with the Heartless.

                John, sighing at Sherlock’s obliviousness, answered, “We have absolutely no idea.  They just appeared.”

                “Are those… _swords?_ ” Dimmock asked, flummoxed.

                “Actually, they look more like giant keys,” commented another constable who was staring at the scene with incredulity.  He wasn’t the only one.  Everyone at the scene (and at their televisions) were watching with rapt interest.  Anthea sent a text on her phone to Mycroft who immediately responded back with a curt order.

                _Escort them out of the public eye.  Now._

                But before Anthea and the MI5 agents could act…

                “Elementary, chaps.  You are both correct.  The strange objects that you see before you are called Keyblades,” spoke out a small, refined voice, muted and almost as if uttered by a toddler.

                “And it looks like we have found the two newest wielders,” said another tiny voice, warm and genially polite.

                Everyone turned towards the sources and stared, mouths dropping and eyes so wide, one could see the whites all around.  Even Sherlock and John Watson were struck dumb at the scene.  One constable even fainted due to the shock and the sudden sensation of blood rushing to his head.

                Basil coughed resolutely before straightening out his deerstalker and offering out a minuscule hand towards DI Lestrade, announcing boldly, “Greetings, my good fellow.  Detective Inspector, are you not?  My name is Basil of Baker Street, and this is my partner, Major David Q. Dawson.”

                “Charmed,” the mouse with the moustache smiled as he waved meekly.

                No one spoke, although Anderson’s eyes were sparkling with delight as he thought of how much of a tizzy this was going to bring towards the Empty Hearse Club’s next meeting.

                Anthea received another text instantly.

                _I see them.  Observe and do not engage._

                “With us is our current associate and guide for the Keyblades, the good chap whose shoulders we are currently riding on, the Captain of the Royal Guards of his Majesty, King Mickey of the Magical Kingdom: Captain Goofy.”

                “Aw shucks, Goofy’ll do just fine.  Pleased to meetcha,” laughed the famous dog as he lowered his metal shield (with the emblem of Mickey Mouse) and offered out a pleasant and affable hand out to Lestrade.

                John committed to memory of seeing a flabbergasted and baffled Sherlock, speechless and temporarily struck dumb, for the rest of his life.  This along with seeing a talking, human-sized, anthropomorphic dog with two adequately-sized talking mice who just happened to be eerily similar to the famous Disney characters they depicted.

                Sally Donovan, for once, was hyperventilating as she pressed her hands against her temple and repeated over and over, “I am **not** here.  I am having a bad dream and being delusional.  I will wake up and realize that this is not real.  I am having a bloody nightmare.  Or I’m drunk.  I am delusional, and this is **a bad dream** …”

                “…anyone want to take a picture?” whispered one civilian who was witnessing this, awestruck from the sidelines.  Next to the tourist, one teenage girl was frantically texting this status update on her cell phone before she blinked.

                “ **Bugger!**   Tumblr and Twitter both went duff!  The bloody servers crashed!”

                Goofy, with Basil and Dawson on his left and right shoulders (respectively) seemed confused at the fact that Lestrade (as well as everyone around them and the people watching this on the news) was gaping at him like a fish, one eyebrow twitching ever so slightly.  Goofy cocked his head to the side.

                “Gawrsh,” Goofy said hesitantly, “Did I do it wrong?  Do you people shake hands here as a way to say ‘hello’?”

                “Of course we do Goofy!” squealed Anderson excitedly (drawing a few rolled yes sin his direction), “But…if you’re here, does that mean Donald and Mickey Mouse are real too?!”

                Goofy looked pleased as he exclaimed, “Hyuck!  You know about the King and Donald too?”

                “ ** _Of course we do!_**   You blokes are famous, the most recognized Disney characters in history!”

                “…what is ‘Disney’?”

                Surprisingly, both Goofy and Sherlock asked the same question simultaneously.

                All right, from _said_ Goofy character, perhaps that was understandable.

                But from said Consulting Detective…

                Everyone, from John to Lestrade to each Met officer within hearing range slowly turned their gaze to Sherlock with various ranges of shock, wonder, and confused disdain.  Even Anthea couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

                “ _Seriously?_ ” was all Dimmock could ask in disbelief, not sure if perhaps Sherlock was being facetious.

                Sherlock had the grace to look a bit embarrassed as he heatedly explained, “I may have deleted it, all right?!”


	3. Oo-de-lally, Oo-de-lally, Golly, What a Day

                John Watson didn’t even blink as he ripped though the head and torso one the last Heartless, his Keyblade easily cleaving through the creature and its halberd before the demon crumpled to its knees and disintegrated in a small detonation of shadows.

                Wrestling on the grass, Robin Hood easily stabbed his opponent in the eye with his only arrow, causing the Heartless to immediately back off in pain as it clutched its face.  Leaping to his feet, the fox then swung his bow like a billy club, making a satisfying crack as the wooden weapon smacked across the imp’s face.  As the monster sank to the ground, Robin aimed and fired the arrow directly into the throat of another Heartless, where the armor was the weakest.

                The Heartless collapsed, dead before it toppled over.

                Panting and with sweat covering his brow, John surveyed all around them, but although they had successfully ambushed all the Heartless in the Royal Courtyard, it was isolated and quiet.  No other guards, no alarms raised from the raid, and no sign of anyone else anywhere in Prince John’s castle.

                That was **not** a good sign…

                Robin Hood winced at the deep gashes the Heartless left on his arm when it tried to stab him; it was deep, bleeding heavily, and was most likely going to require stitches.

                “Robin, are you all right?” John asked as he was beside the fox in an instant, professionally wrapping the wound with his handkerchief, but the archer managed a weak smile.

                “I’ll live…” Robin Hood murmured.

                “For now,” interjected a familiar, slimy voice, and John and Robin Hood both immediately acted on instinct as they whirled around towards the source.  Robin Hood’s paw went for the quiver latched to his belt while John went for his Siger pistol before they both realized that Robin spent all his arrows and John’s gun was long empty, the last bullet used to kill Hans back in Arendelle.

                Regardless, both of them were strained and ready to spring as the Sheriff of Nottingham stood there calmly, the obese wolf not even batting an eyebrow as he idly picked his clawed fingernails with a sharp dagger.

                John wordlessly hefted his Keyblade in both of his hands, admirably unruffled and composed, as Robin Hood discreetly tried to look around, if there were any unbroken shafts or sticks he could use in a pinch.  Alas, there was nothing useful amid the grass and cobblestones except being littered with dead bodies, strewn helmets, shattered weapons, and rubble.

                Both the fox and the human lingered, tense, until the Sheriff of Nottingham glanced up at the two opponents and smirked.

                He was far too confident, far too poised despite the surprise raid…

                “I believe you’ve lost something, Doctor Watson,” the Sheriff said smugly before calling out, “Meet the Head Executioner.”

                With a whirlwind of smoke and shadow, the enormous Heartless appeared out of thin air.  It was certainly formidable, over seven feet tall and a well-built, muscular frame.  A treacherous Rhinoceros dressed in armor, complete with a red tunic bearing a black Heartless symbol, leather boots and gloves, and even a black cowl and mask to cover its head, contrasting against the sickly-gray skin and yellow jaundiced eyes.  However, the Head Executioner was holding a limp object it its arms tightly, nearly compressing its victim to death in a bear hug.

                John inhaled sharply in dread.

                “Sherlock…” breathed Robin in horror, eyes wide.

                Sherlock Holmes, despite his injuries and the dried blood crusting over one of his eyes, immediately blinked repeatedly in Morse Code for John as he raised his head ever so slightly.

                _M-E-D-A-L._

                John could tell that the detective was quite injured straightaway.

                In addition to being swathed in iron chains and in a gripping vise within the Heartless’ brawny arms, Sherlock was teetering on the brink of consciousness from a rather severe thrashing.  His prized Belstaff coat was torn, his nose broken and smeared with blood along with the rest of his cut and bruised face.  Dried vomit and bile crusted down his mouth and chin.  A red shiner bloomed in Sherlock’s left eye, swelling and making it difficult for Sherlock to blink, his curly hair messed up and missing patches (where the Sheriff ripped it off by the handfuls while punching Sherlock repeatedly in the face during his captivity).  And to add further insult to the injury, Sherlock’s ankle was at a wince-worthy angle, fractured.

                John felt anger.

                **_Righteous, bubbling fury._**

                Before Robin Hood could try to make a move, the Sheriff then brought his dagger to Sherlock’s neck, centimeters from slashing his throat.  Sherlock winced, but he managed to suppress the groan out of his mouth as he continued to blink.

                _M-E-D-A-L._

                The Sheriff continued speaking but John couldn’t and didn’t hear the smug wolf, although given how Robin’s eyes were narrowed and his fur was bristling, hackles raised, it wasn’t anything good.  The blood was roaring too loudly in his ears.

                The problem was that John could barely tell who he was more livid at: the Sheriff or Sherlock.

                Screw that previous thought.

                If John got his hands on Sherlock, there was a good chance he was going to kill Sherlock himself by throttling him.

                The doctor nearly didn’t even feel the tiny paws and feet climbing discreetly underneath his jacket until he heard the mice, Basil and Dawson, whisper into his ears, partially hidden under his coat collar.

                “He’s blinking in Morse Code…” Dawson whispered urgently in John’s right ear.

                “His medallion is different…” Basil noted in John’s left.

  
Art by [Kelley](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) / [Penumbra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra)

                John then discerned what Basil was referring to.

                The fact that the medallion handing off the Sheriff’s neck as a chain instead of the typical medieval ribbon, as if he wanted to ensure that he couldn’t and wouldn’t lose it…

                How the metal of the necklace was not gold or silver, but of plain brass.  An odd choice of jewelry for a Nottingham official of the King (who cared immensely about appearances)…

                And the disc of the medal glistened in the sunlight, oddly polished and brand new, as if it was specifically and recently bequeathed to him, just like the recent Heartless invasions of the entire kingdom or how the Head Executioner just apparated at the Sheriff’s command…

                Clarity came.

                Basil gently tugged on the end of John’s hair at the back of his neck, uttering urgently, “Hiro, Scrooge, and Jim are about to cause a distraction.  You and Robin must be ready when the ruckus starts, all right chap?  We **can** save Sherlock, but we **must** use our heads…”

                “We shall sneak around and grab the medallion in the resulting confusion,” Dawson whispered, but John heatedly murmured under his breath without moving a muscle and trying his best to not ostentatiously move his mouth.

                “No, pass a message to Robin…”

                The two mice’s eyes crinkled in confusion as they then heard John’s preposterously barmy idea.

                “ **AAAAUUGGGHHH!** ” screamed Sherlock suddenly in excruciating agony, howling to the heavens, and breaking John out of reverie as the Rhino Heartless constricted his grip around Sherlock’s bruised chest even further.  The dark-haired detective arched back in pain before he went limp like a rag doll, panting and fresh blood now dribbling out of his mouth, sputtering weakly.

                Definite broken rib…

                Possible puncture of the posterior segment of one of Sherlock’s lungs given the way he was now rasping…

                Continued compression around chest and thoracic regions leading to a likelihood of a lung collapsing…

                “I thought that would get your attention,” the Sheriff bragged as he then dug the edge of the dagger closer to Sherlock’s neck, biting into the man’s skin, “So, do we have a deal?”

                Embed his Keyblade into the sternocleidomastoid muscle to sever the carotid artery and jugular vein in the Sheriff’s neck…

                Take one of Robin Hood’s broken arrows and shove the tip through the wolf’s eye socket and directly into the cerebral cortex and the suprachiasmatic nucleus…

                Ram the blunt end of his Keyblade right between the larynx and trachea, crushing the windpipe and take satisfaction at watching the Sheriff slowly suffocate, wide-eyed as he gasps for precious air…

                “ ** _Go.  To.  Hell_** ,” John growled in an uncharacteristically feral voice.  He was hoping his burst of anger would amuse the wolf enough to not notice the two mice detectives sprinting towards Robin Hood, carefully ducking behind rubble and the tall grass all around them.

                The Sheriff’s smile grew even more self-assured, cocky, oblivious and yet dangerously ruthless.

                “Careful, careful…” the official droned, placating and in a condescending manner, “Do you really value your Keyblade over your ‘friend’?  Your dear Sherlock took a pretty bad beating, so not sure how much longer he’ll last.  Oh wait, I shouldn’t be surprised.  What else should have I expected from a pair of _deviants_?”

                The sheriff cackled hard, nearly choking at his joke as the knife dug deeper and deeper into Sherlock’s skin, slapping his leg with one hand.

                Sherlock winced as he continued to blink, this time a bit more urgently as his mouth went into a tight-lipped line.

                _M-E-D-A-L._

                John’s jaw visibly tightened, his left hand twitching against the Keyblade handle.

                Robin actually growled, showing his teeth, as Basil and Dawson slowly and clandestinely climbed up the archer’s back, gripping the cloth of his tunic.

                Robin snapped, pointing at the Sheriff with his wooden bow, “I would rather stand with a deviant than a traitor to the Crown!  Release Sherlock.  **Now.** ”

                “And you must be stupider than you look.  One move from either of you, and the Consulting Detective dies,” the Sheriff said harshly.

                “If he dies, there will no power in Heaven or Hell that will stop me from hunting you down,” John declared calmly while Basil and Dawson whispered urgently behind Robin’s shoulders, taking care that the Sheriff couldn’t spot them.

                The Sheriff tilted his head a bit mockingly, as if John has told an amusing joke.

                “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Doctor.  All I have to do is...let’s see, how’d he say it?  Ah yes, **_burn the heart out of you._** ”

                _Now_ both John and Sherlock were staring wide-eyed at the wolf (while Robin Hood looked simply confused at statement).

                Sherlock’s face actually went a shade paler while John’s heart began to pound excruciatingly against his ribcage with dread.

                But before any of them could ponder this appalling clue even further…

                _Crackle, crackle, crackle!_   **_KABOOOM!_**

                “What in tarnation - ?!” gasped the Sheriff as screams, yells, and chaos of the immense bedlam rang throughout the castle of Prince John seconds after the lightning bolts rained down from the skies above.

                “Our stores of gunpowder!  The castle is collapsing!” hollered a Rat Guard (thankfully not one of the Heartless but rather a living and breathing animal serving Prince John) as a major portion of the citadel buckled from the resulting detonation.

                “And the armory is flooded!” called out another burly rhinoceros.

                “ **AH!** _FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!_ ”

                “Stop, drop, and roll!  Stop, drop, and roll!  **_Stop, drop, and roll!_** ”

                “That isn’t going to work, you dim-witted dewberry!”

                WHOOOOSSSH!

                Various screams rang throughout the bastion as a good number of Prince John’s sentries were quickly blown away by a powerful and localized hurricane and besieged by pellets of hail, ice chunks larger than golf balls.

                “I knew I should I have just joined the Crusades!  It would have been a lot quieter!”

                “Troops!  What in blazes are you dolts doing?!  Shoot them!  **_SHOOT THEM ALL!_** ”

                “Someone stole all our arrows!  We have nothing to shoot them with!”

                _Shhhoooommm!_

                “The catapults!  They’re all destroyed!” shrieked an Elephant as the Graviga spells rent their precious war instruments asunder, splintering them into useless kindling and twisted metal.

                “ **What?!**   What could ever destroy such heavy instruments of war built of the finest metal and wood?!”

                “I cannot say for certain, but we are now the proud owners of Sherwood Forest’s largest tinder pile!”

                “Troops!  **CHARGE!** ” yelled another Rhino Guard as he and over twenty others blitzed Hiro and Baymax.

                _Biff!_   **POW!**   Smash!  _WHUMP!_   Poom, poom, poom!  _Crunch!_   **_WHOMP!_**

                “Retreat, retreat, **retreat!** ” screamed the same rhinoceros, now missing his horn (and a few teeth), his voice an octave higher in terror as his comrades withdrew away as fast as they could.

                “Forget about retreating!  Run for your lives!”

                “Oh God above all, that thing is no Marshmallow Man!  **_It is a bloodthirsty demon from the Gates of Hell!_** ”

                **_Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam!_**

                “Captain!  The hulking ape-man is punching at the south battlement!”

                “ _Pfft!_   That wall is over ten feet of solid stone!  He’ll _never_ break through it!”

                _SMASH!_

                “…although I could be wrong,” the stunned Rat murmured as he stared at the gaping hole.

                Though he was still holding his knife precariously to Sherlock’s throat, the Sheriff was so immersed and preoccupied with horror at the sudden foray, he did not realize the tiny paws pulling at the latch of his necklace until it was too late.

                “We’ll take this, thank you!” yelled Dawson and he and Basil successfully grabbed the medallion before it could fall and hurriedly slid down the adipose tissue bulging on his back before roughly landing on the grass and hightailing away from the Sheriff as quickly as the two mice could.

                The wolf was struck with horror; without the medallion Xehanort bequeathed him…

                “Give that back, you filthy thieves!” hollered the Nottingham bureaucrat as he dropped his arm by an inch or two.

                Instantly, the Heartless began to shudder, quivering as if going through a stroke, its yellow eyes even more wild and glassy than before as the protection enchantments began to weaken and fragment…

                Sherlock and John simply shared a single, significant look before they acted instantly.

                “ ** _VACTICAN CAMEOS!_** ” John yelled before he willed his Keyblade and tossed it directly at Robin.  The fox smoothly caught the magical Talisman before placing it into his bow and loading the Keyblade as he would any arrow.  Despite the Keyblade appearing inefficiently oversized and awkward, to Robin, it just felt right, as if it was a natural fit due to the magic surrounding it.

                At the same time, Sherlock tightened the muscles of his neck instinctively and moved his head and twisted to his left as far as he could.  The sudden movement away from his knife as well as John’s puzzling code word made the Sheriff blink.

                That one moment of hesitation was all Robin needed as he aimed and fired.

  
Art by [Kelley](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) / [Penumbra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra)

                Like a ray of light, John’s Keyblade shot forward, swift and sure and expeditious, tearing through the distance and air directly at Sherlock’s captors within a blink of an eye.

                The Head Executioner had absolutely no chance.

                _Shhhiiippp!_

                The Heartless was actually frozen, dumbstruck and at first confused at what happened.

                Until the Sheriff looked upwards to see the gaping hole the Keyblade left in the Heartless’ head, above the snout and cleaving through its forehead between the eyes brilliantly by mere centimeters when it rushed past and tore through the Rhino.

                Shuddering and giving a quaky, inhuman scheech, the Heartless toppled backwards and died, crumbling into shades and wisps of black smoke as the injured Sherlock tumbled to the grass and dirt with a groan, still bruised and bound in chains, but still very much alive.

                As the white Keyblade reappeared in John’s hands, alarmed and realizing that his trump card had been obliterated, in a wild and desperate frenzy, the Sheriff leapt towards the fallen Sherlock, hoping to either stab the detective or take him hostage.

                Thankfully, before John could even think of using his Keyblade again (or Sherlock could summon his), a familiar Gargoyle Hound tore across the grassy field as swift as lightning and appeared from the Sheriff’s blind spot and tackled the corpulent wolf…

                “ ** _RRAAAWWRRRR!_** ” howled Bronx as the blue-skinned beast rigorously slammed himself into the Sheriff and set upon the corrupt officer in a furious rage, ripping with his claws and biting with his teeth, blood and bits of stained cloth and flesh flying everywhere.

                The Sheriff screamed and screamed and screamed bone-chillingly in a high-pitched tone of terror as he feebly tried to push the heavy beast off him, his punches and knife doing inconsequential damage to Bronx’s tough hide.

                Bronx then lunged for the wolf’s throat.

                The screaming stopped.

                Robin couldn’t even bear to watch as he shut his eyes and turned his head away, not sure if he could ever purge the sounds of the disembowelment from his nightmares.

                John Watson didn’t even stop to stare, and instead, tore off in a mad dash towards Sherlock.

                Meanwhile, watching from a hidden corner away from the Courtyard, Prince John finished vomiting the contents of his stomach at the sight of Bronx killing his second-in-command before apprehensively wiping the bile from his mouth, terrified and out of his mind with anxiety.

                The Sheriff was dead…

                Sir Hiss was incapacitated and immobilized by that damned inventor boy in the robotic, purple suit…

                The castle was now in flames and starting to resemble Swiss cheese with all the holes and damage it took…

                All the Heartless soldiers and minutemen had been vanquished and obliterated…

                The townspeople had been liberated from the dungeons and were now forming angry mobs outside, looking for revenge…

                His loyal legions of Elephants, Rhinoceroses, and Rats were all injured, dead, or fleeing for their cowardly lives…

                At this point, he was alone and helpless.

                Prince John saw the Courtyard Gates, the front entrance left wide open and the drawbridge down.  Taking his chances and seizing the largest sack of gold he could possibly carry and sling over his shoulder, the lanky and scraggy lion went sprinting towards the exit and abandon.

                Only to carelessly slip of a patch of ice, spread evenly in his path on top of the soil and grass sod before he crashed face-first into the ground, wounding his nose as coins scattered from the open sack everywhere.

                “Going somewhere, _your Majesty?_ ” asked Elsa with derision as she finished encasing the lion’s feet to the ground.  The corrupt sovereign looked up to see Elsa, Jim Hawkins, and Scrooge McDuck all glaring down at him.  And if the threat of the Snow Queen wasn’t enough, Prince John then noticed that Jim was holding a crossbow with a bolt aimed directly at his head while the tip of Scrooge McDuck’s cane was sparkling dangerously with electricity, Thundaga magic ready.

                Prince John then did the only thing that came to his panicked and shell-shocked mind.

                “ _Mommy…_ ” the lion whined as he began sucking on his thumb.

                Jim Hawkins actually blinked at that.

                “That’s…just sad,” Jim commented.

                Robin then heard the distinct sound of propulsion engines and hover boots before he turned to the skies above to see a familiar, white inflatable robot in red armor and Hiro (riding on Baymax’s back).

                “Robin, are you all right?!” Hiro asked as he leapt down from Baymax.

                “Get Baymax to Sherlock and Doctor Watson.  Sherlock is hurt, presumably beaten while being held captive since he went missing,” Robin commanded, pointing a finger at where John Watson was unlocking and removing the padlocked chains around Sherlock.  Baymax titled his head, looking at the bleeding handkerchief wrapped around the fox’s arm.

                “Robin, you are injured.  Initializing scan…” Baymax intoned as he pointed at the deep scratches.

                “Baymax, I am fine.  Go help Sherlock and Doctor Watson,” Robin repeated, a bit irritated but extremely vexed about Sherlock.

                Baymax however continued, “Scan complete.  I sense both you and Sherlock are injured.  I also detect massive injuries to the Sheriff of Nottingham along with a lack of heartbeat.  Therefore, restructuring priority according to protocol based on the severity of trauma.”

                “ _Baymax!_ ” snapped Hiro and Robin (with Robin being the angrier).

                The android titled his head before he stated, “Sherlock Holmes has sustained a broken ankle, multiple contusions across his chest, head, and face from physical altercations, a slight concussion, hemorrhaging of his fingers from four pulled fingernails, a stab wound from a dagger in his side, three infected scorch marks set into his skin around the collarbone, internal bruising of tissue around his kidneys, and two broken ribs.  Therefore, immediate attention shall be directed to Sherlock Holmes as of now.”

                Robin winced; he didn’t need to know the details.  Hiro nodded as Baymax ambled off in a steady gait.  The fox then turned to the human prodigy.

                “What about the other guards and Prince John’s Heartless army?” Robin asked.

                “Pocahontas and Ralph are finishing up the last of them and freeing the townspeople, and everyone else took off for the hills screaming.  Elsa and the others just captured Prince John, so I don’t think we’ll be in any danger for a while,” Hiro said as he flipped his visor up, revealing his flushed face.

                At the same time, Bronx was still clawing and tearing apart the fat corpse of the Sheriff with the two mice, Dawson and Basil, pulling at the webbed appendages at the sides of Bronx’s head, screaming and yelling vainly for the Gargoyle Beast to stop.

                “Bronx!  Stop!  Down!  _Heel!_   **That’s enough!**   Stop, chap!  We don’t want to kill the Sheriff!” cried out Dawson.

                “…I think perhaps at this point, we should rather be more concerned if we should leave his remains in a _somewhat_ recognizable state,” mused Basil thoughtfully at his partner’s foolish command.

                “ ** _You’re not helping!_** ” snapped Dawson at his partner.

                “I’ll go help Dawson and Basil…” sighed Hiro as he took off to help control Bronx.

                Robin thankfully nodded as he went towards where John was tending to Sherlock (with Baymax watching and commenting from the side).  John already forced Sherlock to remove his Belstaff and his dress shirt, leaving Sherlock barechested as John felt around his head and chest.

                Baymax queried dutifully, “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain, Sherlock?”

                “Piss…off…” coughed Sherlock weakly.  Baymax just tilted his head in confusion.

                “That is not a valid choice.”

                “Don’t talk, Sherlock,” John muttered tightly, his left hand trembling ever so slightly.

                Sherlock protested, “This is ridiculous.  Just have Pocahontas heal me with her magic, and I’ll be right as rain within moments.  We cannot just uselessly - !”

                “ ** _I SAID SHUT UP!_** ”

                Everyone, even Sherlock, went temporarily mute as the scream from John’s mouth, the words coarse and rough with grief and anger.  Not even Baymax felt it was logical to inform John of his rising body temperature and elevated blood pressure and cortisol levels.  John refused to let the pricking in his tightly shut eyes swim with tears as he then forced each word to methodically form through clenched teeth.

                “You were missing for two days…” John began.

                Sherlock was about to open his mouth to protest, but one glare from John spoke of the silent promise of further bodily injury made him silent.

                “Pocahontas spoke with the birds, and she reported to us that you went to go spy on Prince John’s castle by yourself.  **Without telling any of us…** ”

                Robin silently took the extra handkerchief from John’s clenched fist and wet the cloth with some water from his canteen before gently wiping the dried blood off Sherlock’s face.

                “Baymax and Hiro couldn’t scan the castle for your whereabouts because the Heartless’ influence and magical signatures interfered with their technology.  We were completely in the dark and would have had no idea of your location or even if you were alive to begin with.  Robin thankfully used a disguise to infiltrate the stronghold and overheard the guards, Nutsy and Trigger, discussing about a captured ‘Consulting Detective’.”

                Hiro then managed to summon his microbots from the hidden caches of his suit to gently form a black wave of mass, surging and comprised of all the hi-tech miniatures working in tandem, to gently encapsulate and cocoon Bronx before extracting him off the remains of the Sheriff.

                “I argued with everyone for hours, worried and eager to storm through the castle and rip it apart brick by brick myself if it meant getting you back safely.  It got so heated that I actually tried to punch Scrooge, and Wreck-It Ralph threatened to sit on me if I didn’t calm down.”

                Basil and Dawson gave each other a knowing look at John’s words before they continued watching on, only they now joined hands, feeling comfort at the touch of their fingers and paws.

                “You **cannot** do this to me, not again.  You **cannot** go off and get yourself in the thick of danger without telling me the truth.  You **cannot** just shield me from your ideas and plans in a misguided effort to keep me safe like the idiot you are.  Because of it, the others took turns watching me to make sure I didn’t sneak off by myself.”

                “Oh come on - !” Sherlock objected, but John’s next words struck him dumb.

                “I was going to perform **_a suicide mission_** to get you back Sherlock.”

                Robin Hood blinked and looked up at John Watson, the light of comprehension slowly dawning on his face.  Sherlock felt his face go slack with confused disbelief as John then opened his watering eyes and looked intently at Sherlock.

                Without even comprehending it, John slowly took Sherlock’s bruised hand in his.

                “ **I wanted to die.**   Do you understand, Sherlock?  I didn’t care how many Heartless I could have run into, how madcap it would have been, how much I’d be risking the fate of this next Keyblade War if we both didn’t make it.  I just didn’t want to be left behind.  **_Not again._** ”

                Sherlock, finally feeling some shame and remorse seep into his icy eyes, looked down, abashed.

                John felt the memories of Saint Barts rush into his head, the agony, the haunting pain and loss, the infinite times John flashed back and wondered what he could have done differently…

                “If something happened to you, and I knew that there could have been something I could have done to stop it, to fix it, to at the very least go with you so that you wouldn’t be alone against the world…”

                John broke it off and left it unsaid, but thankfully, no one (not even Baymax) spoke.  Although Robin Hood felt a surge of compassion and worry in his heart for both Sherlock and John Watson, and the fox wanted to embrace them both and just comfort them, his newfound friends.

                John then felt Sherlock’s fingers latch around his hand, ice-cold but when the doctor looked into the consulting detective’s blue pupils, there was depth and emotion in Sherlock’s pupils, not outright blubbering and loud declarations of regret, but the quiet speculation in which something mysterious and murky gave light to something deeper within, something rarely shown unless John learned to look beyond and truly see into Sherlock’s heart.

                There were several seconds of silence before Sherlock spoke.

                “I’m sorry…” Sherlock whispered, his voice dry and raspy.

                John paused as he contemplatively looked at Sherlock.

                Robin got the strangest feeling that an apology from the consulting detective didn’t happen very often given the way John’s stoic veneer had a faint ripple of concerned emotion underneath.

                The fox also had the strangest feeling that the apology was meant for something far more than this one transgression in Nottingham…

                After a few more moments of calm, John’s eyes softened as he exhaled wearily.

                “I’m still angry, you berk…” muttered the Army doctor, but his eyes were glistening and his voice had a faint sprinkling with relief as he gently caressed Sherlock’s face for a fleeting second.

                Robin politely remained quiet as Baymax then promptly spoke.

                “Scanners indicate that Sherlock’s body temperature is slowly but steadily rising along with his heartbeat and hormone levels of endorphins.  I suggest several hours of quiet rest, relaxation in an unobtrusive environment, and for John Watson to stop holding Sherlock’s hand.”

                “Piss off…” chorused both Sherlock and John Watson, and Robin Hood finally cracked a smile.

                It was safe to say that things were going to be a lot more interesting with these two around…

 

* * *

 

                From the hidden darkness within the folds of time and space in the Dark Meridian, the yellow-eyed Nobody took this all in from his scry, watching the picture Doctor Watson smile as he touched his forehead against Sherlock Holmes’.  He then heard the muffled sound of footsteps in the sand as another figure joined him along the murky beach.

                “You seem quite pleased with yourself, Torryaxim…” Master Xehanort stated as his newest member.

                “Of course,” the dark-haired Nobody drawled out with a sadistic smile, cheshire and so coldly vicious, as he straightened out his tie while walking out of the shadows, “After all, it would be a shame for Sherlock and Doctor Watson to die before they witness my new look.  Because, baby… ** _look at me now_** …”


End file.
